No Greater Love - Box Set

by Prowse, Amanda

  ‘Good, thanks, but stop changing the subject. It’s true you know, Kate, a good swear can be most therapeutic. Do you know that in all the years I’ve known you, I have never, ever heard you properly swear apart from the odd “bloody” and a couple of “shits”, which frankly don’t really count, and I honestly think that sometimes you would find it of great benefit. I love a good swear, especially in the car, and I can tell that right now is one of those times. Come on, Kate, repeat after me. Boll—’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Kate raised her hand and cut her friend short.

  ‘I have never sworn habitually and I’m not going to start now in my forties!’

  ‘You are such a goody-goody.’

  ‘That’s me!’

  ‘Anyway, what’s up? Why the need for an almost-nearly swear?’

  Kate looked at her friend sitting astride a high stool and sighed.

  ‘Oh, Natasha, I’ve had a pants day. People are coming out of the woodwork and demanding certificates and insurance policies and goodness knows what else before we can open properly and as if that isn’t enough, I’m afraid we’ve got a bit of a situation on our hands.’

  ‘Ooh, that sounds dramatic. Tell all!’

  Natasha placed her paintbrush into its pot of water, swirling it to create the most vivid shade of blue. She bunched her voluminous skirt into her hand and gave Kate her full attention.

  ‘I ran into a young chap in the post office who told me that the locals are not happy about what we are doing up here.’

  ‘Oh my God! It’s out, isn’t it! The fact that we have been drinking Chablis and eating crisps while watching Mamma Mia into the early hours. Oh my God, the shame! I confess all; I have a weakness for Pierce Brosnan!’

  ‘This is serious, Natasha, and worse still, I have agreed to go and face the masses at the pub tonight for a bit of a question and answer session. I don’t know what I was thinking, I was just so incensed! I felt a lot braver then than I do now.’

  ‘I think it’s a great idea. We should be open and up front, not hide here as though we have a guilty secret. It will be okay once we have actually met the locals. They probably think we are a couple of lesbians living a life of debauchery all alone and thoroughly enjoying ourselves!’

  ‘Goodness, Natasha, not the whole lesbian thing again, please!’

  They both laughed.

  Half-past seven came round very quickly. Kate quietly closed the front door and felt a wave of anxiety. The next time she stepped through its frame she would either be accepted or alienated – quite a daunting thought.

  The two sauntered along the lane in the dying warmth of the summer’s day. Kate had dressed with care in a pair of tailored jeans, a floral poplin shirt and the faintest smidge of make-up. The novelty of being able to wear jeans after two decades of Mark’s sartorial restrictions had not worn off; she doubted that it ever would. In her deck shoes and with a cotton jersey over her shoulders, she looked somewhere between a local and a visiting yachtie.

  Natasha looked magnificent in a turquoise linen shift with an array of lapis lazuli at her throat and wrists. No understated dressing for her – Kate wouldn’t have expected anything different.

  ‘It’ll be all right you know, Kate. What’s the worst that they can do? Hound us out of town?’

  Kate smiled weakly and thought that yes, that was exactly what they could do.

  The Lobster Pot pub radiated light against the natural landscape, throwing out its shadowy beams across the tarmac car park and grass beyond. It was the same glow that drew teenage adventurers, with the lure of all that it held within, but for Kate Gavier it looked like the Admiral Benbow from Treasure Island, and tonight held as much menace.

  The two women stepped through the door and were greeted by at least forty pairs of eyes and a curtain of silence that descended with alarming speed. The place was packed to the rafters with the old and the young; denim-clad bottoms were balanced on stools and filled the shabby booths; women were perched on the knees of their menfolk. The air was thick with the sweat and alcohol-breath of the crowd. The windows had steamed up and the place pulsed with the anticipation of forty expectant souls whose tongues and wits were being lubricated by the local real ale.

  Kate hesitated for a fraction of a second, loitering in the doorway. To flee or fight, that was her dilemma. A loud voice roused her from her stupor.

  ‘Ah! Here she is, our guest of honour!’

  A large man in his mid fifties stepped forward from the crowd, a generous measure of whisky swirling in his hand. His mustard cords, checked shirt and floppy hair identified him as the wealthy restaurant owner from the harbour. He was a minor celebrity in these parts, with a stake in nearly all the local businesses, including the pub. His shiny yacht, which was permanently moored alongside the shabby fishing boats, made a bold statement.

  Kate and Natasha had seen him from afar at least twice. He was a man for whom ageing was not only a problem but also a preoccupation. Tooth veneers and a regular root touch-up to keep the grey at bay both helped. Little, however, could be done to disguise his elderly hands, aged with liver spots and reminding Kate of prime pork sausages: meaty, bloated and growing more inept month on month. He dressed as he always had, paying no heed to his expanding waistline or the swell of his neck that strained beneath his collar. Kate and Natasha could see that two or three decades earlier he might have been attractive in a rather caddish, country gentleman type way. But not now, now he was past his prime. They had snickered, knowing that to be similarly assessed would be devastating.

  He reached out his chubby hand and Kate shook it firmly, noting the heavy gold signet ring on his little finger.

  ‘Rodney Morris. Delighted to meet you.’ His voice boomed with the confidence of a man who wanted to be heard.

  ‘Kathryn Br— Gavier, I’m Kate Gavier.’

  Damn! She didn’t know why she did that, but whenever nerves got the better of her, she almost always referred to herself by her married name. Any high-anxiety situation had the potential to kick her back into that state of terror she’d permanently endured during her marriage, all but flipping her brain into assuming the role of Kathryn Brooker, tortured wife.

  ‘Well, Kate, I have been nominated “unofficial spokesman”, if you like, to try and add a semblance of order to proceedings.’

  Kate was pleased that Natasha, who was now standing to her right, did not correct his use of ‘spokesman’ to ‘spokesperson’, although she knew that her desire to do so would be strong. She herself fought the need to giggle, accurately surmising that far from being put out at his role, Rodney Morris would have volunteered to take centre stage.

  The whole charade was quite hilarious. The rag-taggle brigade in front of her, ranging from the estate agent who had sold her the house to the milkman who delivered to her daily, were there to decide whether they would accept her or not. Who the bloody hell did they think they were? Kate was suddenly invigorated with strength and confidence. She had faced worse than this motley collection over the last few years, was she going to fall at the first hurdle? No, no she wasn’t. She stepped into middle of the room and very quietly and calmly took control.

  ‘Excellent. It’s great to finally meet you, Rodney, in fact to meet all of you, whose paths we have crossed anonymously for the past few weeks. This is my friend and colleague, Natasha Mortensen.’

  Natasha waved to anyone whose eye she could catch.

  ‘It’s great to see so many of our new neighbours here tonight and I am very grateful for the opportunity to tell you all about our new venture. So I guess it’s best if I start by giving you a brief summary of what it is that we are planning to do at Prospect House and then take any questions. How does that sound?’

  There were several loud, inarticulate mutterings, but the general consensus was ‘Yes’, ‘Fine’ and ‘Let’s get on with it’.

  Rodney Morris nodded and twisted the chunky ring on his pinkie, feeling that his role as unofficial spokesman had rather been
usurped. He took two steps backwards in a physical gesture of redundancy.

  Kate turned to face the crowd. They were silent, drinks held aloft, awaiting the sermon.

  ‘I would firstly like to say how very fortunate I feel to now be living in such a beautiful, tranquil place as Penmarin and I am sure that I don’t need to tell you people how lucky you are to live and work in somewhere so blessed.’

  Natasha was stunned by her friend’s commanding, steady voice. You go, girl! This too she managed to refrain from shouting.

  ‘I intend to open Prospect House as a residential home for people who have not always been so blessed in their environment or their lives—’

  ‘Yeah, we heard it was going to be full of paedophiles, rapists, druggies and whatnot. Truth is, we don’t want them here, we really don’t!’

  The voice of dissent belonged to a fisherman, who was still wearing his padded wading trousers. His angry words had been battering the inside of his lips ever since Kate had entered the pub. Several shouts of agreement came from the crowd and there were some nods as well.

  ‘Paedophiles and rapists? Goodness me! Who would want that?’

  Her smile was for Natasha alone. They both knew that Kate had lived amongst those types and worse for the last few years and that a good few of the people in the pub would likely be either or both, such was life. A small ripple of comment and laughter spread among the crowd; they were clearly divided. She continued.

  ‘I can assure you that the last thing I would do is to place you or anyone in this community in danger. The people that I will be taking in may have criminal records, but I am talking about a maximum of six residents at any one time and they will be females, girls between the ages of sixteen and twenty-three. They will probably have had horrid childhoods and as troubled teens most will have never been given a chance or shown kindness. They certainly will never have experienced the beauty of living in a place like this.’

  ‘Well that all sounds lovely, but the big question for me is how will you control them?’ Rodney Morris looked around the bar to garner support for his crass question.

  ‘Control them? They’re not animals, Mr Morris! They are just kids who deserve a break and a better life. We will help them heal through various means, through therapy and coaching. We want to send them on their way with a sense of worth so that they can become valid members of society and make decent lives for themselves.’

  ‘Therapy? What’s that? Do you mean aromatherapy and the like?’ The postmistress’s question hadn’t intended to amuse, but people tittered nonetheless.

  Natasha stepped forward. ‘This is probably where I come in. I was an art teacher for a number of years and a couple of years ago I retrained as an art therapist. I’ll work very closely with our residential counsellor—’

  Rodney Morris couldn’t help himself. His voice boomed.

  ‘Ah, I see. The old “let’s stop them reoffending by letting them paint a pretty picture” strategy. Marvellous! But does it work? Why don’t we just send them to Disneyland? In my day we believed in proper punishment, not all this leftie pandering.’

  He sniggered into his knuckles. His cronies at the bar raised their glasses in his direction, a gesture that screamed ‘Well said, that man!’

  ‘Punishment?’ Natasha fought to control her rage at his ignorant, outdated views. ‘You have a point, Rodney, but in the case of these children and young adults, we are not talking about punishment. Our residents will have already been “punished”, as you put it. What we are interested in doing is helping them come to terms with the traumas they have experienced in their young lives. Youngsters like them are not always able to verbalise what has happened to them or how they feel about it. Often they block out feelings and thoughts which need expression. Quite literally, I give them a blank piece of paper in a safe environment. The art therapy provides a safe, non-threatening space and invites the individual to explore their issues. It is often the first time that these kids have been able to communicate what they have been through and once we understand that, we can look at how best to help them.’

  ‘I think it sounds wonderful and if you need any help or materials, I would love to be involved.’

  Natasha looked across at the elderly lady sitting at the bar in her artist’s smock. Natasha had seen her small studio and gallery on the harbour.

  ‘Thank you, yes! That would be wonderful.’

  Rodney Morris did not like the way that events were unfolding. He felt his position as self-appointed village elder was being undermined.

  ‘I think I have heard enough. What next? Free beach barbecues for all the local benefit scroungers? Oh, I know, why don’t I just give all the food in my restaurants away to anyone that didn’t get enough hugs as a child?’ He snorted and turned towards the bar. ‘I need to top up this drink!’

  A couple of Rodney’s chums chortled obligingly. There was the briefest moment of awkwardness before Kate once again took the floor.

  ‘I guess what we are saying is that these girls are coming here voluntarily because they want to make something of their lives, but it will only really work if they have the support of the community they live in. They have been shunned and treated like dirt everywhere they have ever been and I want their experience here to be different. I want to give them that chance; I want to show them that there is a nice side to life. I want to give them hope.’

  No one heard the door creak open. In the midst of the debate, a girl carrying all she possessed in a heavy grey bin liner entered and stood in the shadows. She listened intently to Kate’s words. Without any pre-planning, she stepped forward and took her place centre stage. Her large frame dominated the low-timbered room. She deposited her bin liner on the floor.

  ‘Kate’s right. I’ve been shunned and treated like dirt since I was little. And let’s face it, it was just bad luck. Some of you got lucky and were born here to parents that loved you, and I got the exact opposite. But I have decided to change my luck. I shall be studying at Plymouth University. I’m going to study psychotherapy. It’s something I could never have imagined doing a few years ago, but someone gave me a chance and showed me that there is a nice side to life.’ She smiled meaningfully in Kate’s direction and Kate beamed back, astonished and thrilled at the surprise arrival of her old friend. ‘If I hadn’t been given that chance,’ the girl continued, ‘my life would be very different, believe me. Now I want to give other people a taste of that hope, and when I finish my course I would like to work at Prospect House to help people like me, people who need better luck. My name is Janeece, by the way.’

  The bar was silent for a moment, then the regulars started mumbling among themselves, casting mental votes, seeing what their neighbours thought before throwing in their support. Tom Heath stepped forward.

  ‘I think it sounds like a wicked project, Kate, and maybe if I’d had a bit more support when I was younger, I might of made something of myself. I could have done with a bit better luck. I will help you in any way that I can.’

  The locals stared at Tom, who had been one of the loudest objectors to Prospect House only minutes before Kate and Natasha’s arrival.

  ‘Thank you, Tom. Actually I do need help; we are looking for a cook and a housekeeper, and there are other roles that need filling.’

  I can definitely help you there; that’s my trade, the hotel game …’

  The volume in the room rose by an octave. Jobs? They hadn’t thought of that.

  The fisherman spoke again. ‘So I guess we won’t be overrun with muggers and murderers!’ He laughed and his friends laughed too. The lion had been tamed, for now.

  ‘No, I can almost guarantee that there will only ever be one killer living at Prospect House.’

  Rodney Morris seized on Kate’s statement.

  ‘A murderer? You are telling us that there will be a murderer living among us, interacting with our kids, roaming our paths? Good God, I don’t like the sound of that one bit! How can you guarantee that we’ll be saf
e?’

  Kate smiled at his flustered rhetoric.

  ‘I personally guarantee that you will be safe from the killer, Rodney.’

  ‘How? How can you guarantee it?’

  Kate turned to face him and spoke loudly enough for them all to hear.

  ‘Because, Rodney, the killer is me. I have, however, served my sentence for manslaughter, done my time, as they say, and don’t expect to be tried again by you or anyone else. And incidentally I am not planning on bumping off anyone else any time soon.’

  The pub was once again silent. Everyone stared at her, each drinker digesting the words and deciding whether they had been spoken in jest.

  Tom stepped forward and placed a pint of real ale into Kate’s hand.

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers, Tom.’

  Kate raised her glass at the crowd, then glugged the beer. Impromptu clapping broke out, and she got the feeling that they were clapping for much more than the fact that she was downing a pint. She was right about that.

  * * *

  The unlikely trio made their way down to the beach below Prospect House. As they spread picnic blankets on the sand and unpacked a cold roast chicken, a large bowl of Greek salad and slices of vanilla cheesecake, they all felt a giddy sense of excitement.

  Natasha produced cold cans of Pimm’s and dished them out. She held hers aloft.

  ‘Here’s to our success and may I say well done to you both for your outstanding performances last night!’

  The three knocked cans together and each took a long swig.

  ‘I was scared,’ Kate confessed.

  ‘You were scared?’ Janeece laughed. ‘Did you see their faces when I pitched up? Half of them were eyeing me bin bag, wondering if I had a sawn-off shot gun in there!’

  The three howled with laughter.

  ‘It is so lovely to see you, Jan, how did you know where to find me?’

  ‘I knew you were in Penmarin from your last letter, and the rest was down to luck. I decided to ask in the pub if they knew where you lived; I mean how many reclusive jailbirds could there be shacked up in a place like this?’